


How False Fears Be

by likesflowers



Series: Not Five Star Hotels [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Not Five Star Hotels, On the Run, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Sex on the Beach (not the drink), Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 02:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14728499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likesflowers/pseuds/likesflowers
Summary: It wasn’t love, but it wasn’t really anything else, either. Even before, they’d had a bond forged of trust and respect and affection that can only appear when everyone you know is trying to kill you.Steve wasn’t explaining this right. As it sounds now, it could have been a backpacker’s idyll, a fairy tale, a dream. He’d left out most of it. The first few weeks, they’d barely stopped anywhere for more than an hour, just long enough to get more food and water before they were in the air again, invisible and lost and desperate.





	How False Fears Be

**Author's Note:**

> Title from John Donne's "The Flea;" its playfulness strikes me as something both Natasha and Steve would find amusing.

It wasn’t love, but it wasn’t really anything else, either. Even before, they’d had a bond forged of trust and respect and affection that can only appear when everyone you know is trying to kill you. It hadn’t been like with Peggy, which was as close as he’d ever come to believing in a soulmate, and it hadn’t been like with Bucky, who was brother and friend and an extension of himself walking around separately. No, this was something different. It wasn’t love, but it wasn’t anything else, either.

 

It wasn’t romantic, he meant. 

 

The first time, they’d had to share a damp mattress in a leaky shed somewhere in Patagonia in the summer, which would still get surprisingly cold when everything you had was wet. Wanda was on an overnight “shore leave” in Buenos Aires (only an hour in the the jet from where they were bunked down for the night), Sam was taking watch outside, and Steve and Nat were curled up like puppies trying to get comfortable. Steve rolled slightly to the side, his chest pressing firmly against her back, and she shifted her leg slightly, and then, it just...happened. No words, just a long moment of eye contact, like she had skipped reading minds and gone straight for the soul, and then they were kissing. 

 

It had been fast and desperate, that first time, just her jeans and panties still around one ankle, his own bunched at his knees, side by side as their heads bumped the ragged wood wall. He buried his face in her neck to muffle his groan as he came, felt her head tip back and jaw loosen as she did too, seconds later. They just lay there for a long moment after, still locked together, sweat cooling their foreheads quickly in the chill air. He rested his head on his elbow to look at her, her level gaze meeting his in the dim moonlight filtering in between the boards of the wall.

 

The space between them felt heavy with unspoken words, but not in an uncomfortable way. They looked at each other, then he saw the corner of her mouth tip up slightly, her eyes crinkle, and he knew exactly what she was going to say before she said it. 

 

“So…” she paused. “Was that your first time since 1945?”

 

Instead of an honest response (no, but definitely the best since then--since ever, quite possibly) or a serious remark, he leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the nose. “You saying I need practice?”

 

Her face had scrunched up adorably at the nose kiss, as if she hadn’t expected it. Surprising Nat was something that rarely happened, and he felt himself smile goofily. He didn’t try to school it into something smoother when she reopened her eyes, either. Her gaze was softer now, like he’d seen on an Iowa farm a lifetime ago. “Everyone needs practice. But you’re not too rusty, if that’s what you mean.” 

 

He huffed out a quiet laugh, leaned forward and kissed her nose again, then pulled out, awkwardly pulling up his pants and tenting the mildewy blankets so she could do the same. As soon as they were fully clothed, he pulled her to his chest and pressed a brief kiss to her dyed hair. “Get some sleep.”

 

She nosed at his chest a tiny bit, curled one strong arm over his chest as one knee folded over his. “You too, Steve.”

 

It was the best sleep he’d had in weeks.

 

\-------------------

 

The second time it happened felt almost like the opposite of the first, for all that it had the same air of inevitability.

 

They were taking a few days for rest and repair at an island in Thailand, remote and unoccupied, but known for occasional tourists roughing it. The quinjet doors were open, letting the ocean breeze air it out as it sat parked just under the tree line. Steve and Wanda had spent the whole morning scrubbing and organizing it--it had become a disaster since it effectively became the home for four people on the run and no helicarrier for repairs and maintenance. Natasha had taken control of that, and spent about two hours banging around the control panels before tightening one last screw and, a smear of grease on her forehead, declared herself done for the day and headed to the spa. 

 

Steve suspected she meant relaxing at the beach a kilometer away, with a cool freshwater stream meeting the ocean and a mangosteen grove providing shade and snacks, but he wouldn’t have been too surprised if she’d actually meant a real spa. She was resourceful in a way that felt almost magical at times. 

 

An hour after she left, he and Wanda took one last look around and declared it as clean as it was going to get. Wanda immediately looked at Sam, who had finished tuning up the EXO pack ages ago and was sitting under a tree drinking from a coconut. She grinned a little, then whisked the coconut out of his hands and towards her. 

 

“Hey! Get your own damn coconut!” 

 

Wanda chuckled. “But this one is already open!” She relented, though, sending little sparks of red upwards and a rustle of wind shook a tree next to where Sam was sitting. Five coconuts landed on the ground. She walked over, flopped down next to him, handed his back, and picked up one of the fallen orbs. “How do you open it so neatly?”

 

Sam couldn’t resist a chance to show off a skill like that, and he had his knife out and was explaining the angle you had to carve at carefully. He already had the knife buried in the coconut before he realized Wanda was teasing him. 

 

“You can do this yourself, can’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

 

“I appreciate it anyway, Sam. Thank you for the coconut.” She smiled warmly, taking the coconut from him (somehow letting him continue holding the knife) and used a wispy blade of red to finish the cut. She clunked her coconut against his. “Cheers.”

 

Sam had the bemused look he got when he knew he had been beat but didn’t really mind. “Cheers.” 

 

Steve was still standing by the quinjet, but he didn’t feel the calm peace the other two were exuding. He felt restless, like an itch under his skin. 

 

“I’m going to for a walk, maybe bring back some fruit later.” He called out.

 

Sam turned his head. “Sure, man. Don’t forget to--”

 

Steve held up the bottle of water. “Got it.” 

 

Wanda looked over, too, looking serious. “And sunscreen.”

 

Steve smiled at that. “Yes, ma.”

 

She laughed and flicked a bit of sand in his direction, then waved and turned back to watch a bird dig around in the wet sand. 

 

Steve did grab the sunscreen and toss it into the bag alongside the water and the trail mix, then set off walking. At first, he didn’t know where he was going, but about half-way there he realized he was headed towards the spa beach. He followed the stream through the trees and paused as the lush green gave way to the blinding white of the sand. 

 

Sure enough, Nat was there, stripped down to her tank top and loose pants rolled up to her knees as she dug around for something in the sand. His foot stepped on a branch and he flinched aside as he heard the blade whistle past his head to thunk into a tree trunk a meter back. 

 

He hadn’t even seen her move, but she was now crouched facing him, her body tilted to keep as narrow a profile as possible as her eyes scanned the trees.

 

“It’s me.” he said loudly.

 

She loosened up immediately and stood, although her body maintained its minimal silhouette. “Ok, me. Stop lurking and help me get some clams. We’re doing a campfire tonight.”

 

Steve grabbed the knife from the tree (it took a bit of pulling to loosen it, even for him) and put his things next to her bag under a nearby tree, leaving his shoes there and going to join her. She was just placing another clam in the mesh basket she’d placed in the freshwater stream, already about half-full. She handed him a wide piece of driftwood and pointed imperiously at an area about four meters away. “I didn’t get any over there yet.” 

 

She walked over to their bags and pulled the sunscreen out of his bag (how did she know he would have that?) then, after coating her face, neck, and shoulders, returned to help Steve dig up dinner. 

 

In about fifteen minutes, they had all but filled the basket, and Natasha declared them done. He set down the driftwood shovel he’d been using and looked out at the waves. The water here was warm, like bathwater, but it still provided comforting relief from the sun. He stripped off his shirt, hands going to his belt. He grinned at Natasha. “You going in too?”

 

Natasha looked right back, then smiled. Pulled off her tank top, revealing a practical but still feminine peach satin bra. Her hands went behind her back and unclipped it, pulling it off and hanging it from a nearby tree.

 

Steve felt his jaw drop a tiny bit, his hands momentarily freezing as he balanced on one leg, pants halfway off and black boxer briefs hot in the sun.

 

She smiled smugly, hands going to the waistband of her loose pants. “What?”

 

Steve shook his head slightly as if to clear it. “Nothing.” He pulled his pants the rest of the way off, not looking as she did the same to hers. He was pretty sure she took her underwear off at the same time, because he saw them hanging on the tree next to the bra. He didn’t even have to look at her to know she was smirking a challenge at him, and everyone in the entire world knew how Steve Rogers reacted to dares. He hung his boxer briefs up right next to her delicates and turned around to look at her with his best “challenge accepted” look on his face.  

 

She gave that rare, tinkling laugh and ran directly into the surf. She stopped when it was about waist high and splashed water onto her face. Steve followed a little more slowly and stopped about a meter away from her. The warm water was relaxing, and under their feet was nothing but sand and the occasional rock. He took a deep breath and dove, swum out a short distance (for him), then resurfaced, treading water even though he could touch bottom without struggling. She was stretched out on top of the water, a lazy backstroke pushing her forward. 

 

They swum separately for a while, just stretching their arms, and finally Steve felt that itchy restlessness begin to recede a bit. He stopped swimming and just floated for a bit, eyes closed against the glare of the sun. 

 

He turned his head, saw Natasha also on her back, still lazily moving her arms now and again, and smiled mischievously. He took a breath, dove underwater, and moved quietly over to her. He resurfaced right next to her and grabbed her around the waist, briefly dunking her and pulling her up just as she started to wrap her legs around him in one of her patented death-by-thigh-grip holds. She was laughing, though, even as she used her arm to send a wide wave of water into his face, and she didn’t loosen her grip. In fact, her other arm came out to hold his head--not his head, his hair, pulling just slightly. 

 

He heard a rumble and realized it was his own laugh; had it really been that long since he’d heard it? He gave a slight shake of his head to clear the water from his eyes and looked at her face, closer to his than he’d expected and grinning wide. His feet dug into the muddy sand below them, bracing them more carefully, and his hands didn’t move from her waist, slippery underwater and warm. 

 

She laughed, lightly, and leaned the last few centimeters to kiss him. He could tell she meant it to be playful at first, but she gave a surprised gasp almost immediately; it was still playful, but also hot and urgent, as if she had surprised herself with her own want. 

 

Steve’s desire wasn’t a surprise to him, although recognizing hers was a pleasant one. 

 

He pulled her closer to him, her legs clenched tighter around his waist, and started to walk them back toward shore, kissing her the whole way, hands trailing up and down her back, under her ass, into her hair. It’s like he couldn’t touch her enough, wanted to touch everything at once and didn’t have enough hands. She was more or less returning the favor, one hand still buried in his hair, the other roaming his shoulders, his arms, her heels digging tight into his back. 

 

He set her down on her back just past the surfline, the waves licking at his heels as he bent over her, kissing down her neck, hands fondling her breasts. His mouth kept moving downwards, licking the salt off her skin. He could feel the moment she realized what he was intending, a slight tension seizing her body, followed almost immediately by loosening and a languid arch upwards into his mouth on her belly.

 

He’d only done this a few times, all before the ice, but he remembered it well enough, and his expanded lung capacity made a noticeable difference in his comfort level. He licked and sucked enthusiastically, pleased with how easily she responded, using her whole body to tell him exactly what she wanted, more of this, less of that, until she was clenching tight around the two fingers he had buried inside of her. She’d kept her hand in his hair this whole time, and it slowly loosened, gently petting his hair as she gave a soft, pleased laugh. 

 

“Get up here, Soldier, and kiss me.” He did, letting her taste herself on his lips as he pressed her down into the sand. It was going to be uncomfortable later, but for the moment, it felt like heaven. She twisted her hips somehow and suddenly they were lined up, his cock against her entrance, and that was more than enough encouragement for him to thrust forward, her pleased moan swallowed by his mouth. 

 

The last time, it had been frantic and hurried, over almost before he could realize what was happening; this time, it was slow and easy, keeping countertime to the waves, the warm feeling of laughter echoing in his mind even as the only sounds they made were pants and gasps. 

 

She came a second time right before he did. After a moment of basking, Steve laughed softly, pushing himself up on one elbow to look at her, flushed from both the orgasm and the sun. He could feel the sun like pins against his upper thighs and lower back. He brushed sand and hair off her face gently. “How badly do you think I’m burned?” he asked. It wasn’t what he meant to say, but he didn’t know what he meant, and he knew she’d have a comeback, sharp and dry like a knife, that would make him feel warm and happy inside. 

 

She didn’t disappoint. “Psst. Supersoldier super-healing. You’ll be fine by the time we get back. Thanks for being my sun umbrella, though.” 

 

Much as he enjoyed his body pressed against hers, being a sun umbrella had not really been one of his ambitions, and soon they moved up into a shady spot near the stream. Still naked, she rested her head against his leg and took a short nap. Steve didn’t sleep, just absently played with her hair and let his mind fill up with the sun and the rhythmic sound of the waves. 

 

Hours later, they brushed off as much sand as they could, lazily picked as many ripe mangosteens as would fit in the little satchel, grabbed the basket of clams, and headed back. They found Wanda asleep under a crude umbrella made of palm trees while Sam wrote in his journal, headphones in. Both were completely okay with the plan to have a bonfire and roast clams for dinner--a significant step up from the MRE’s they’d mostly been living on--and agreed to collect driftwood, since the other two had collected the meal. 

 

Neither Nat nor Steve acted particularly different toward each other, although he caught Sam occasionally shooting them looks and saying something to Wanda about “some spa that is, I have never seen that man look this relaxed.” When it was time for bed, though, he paused next to her, placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, and squeezed slightly. She covered his hand with hers--so tiny compared to his--and squeezed right back, not even looking up at him. He smiled to himself and went to lay down, bedroll stretched out under a palm, and fell asleep to the sound of his friends chattering, the fire slowly dying, and the waves breaking on the shore. For the first time in a long, long time, he felt content.

  
  


\----------

 

Steve wasn’t explaining this right. As it sounds now, it could have been a backpacker’s idyll, a fairy tale, a dream. He’d left out most of it. Being on the run had mostly meant sleeping in shifts on the floor of the quinjet, five of them side-by-side, covered as best they could in heat blankets, with a sixth in the pilot’s keeping the quinjet in flight as they bounced around the globe; the first few weeks, they’d barely stopped anywhere for more than an hour, just long enough to get more food and water before they were in the air again, invisible and lost and desperate. 

 

Six had become five when Scott had taken a deep breath one afternoon and told them he was going home because he missed his daughter. They’d dropped him near the airport in Tokyo, where he’d shrunk himself down and stowed away on a flight to L.A. and taken advantage of some of his underworld connections to lay low right under the ATCU’s nose. He kept in touch via postcards at a series of dropboxes Natasha had worked out with him. He was fine; after about six months, he’d taken some sort of plea deal and been put under house arrest so that he could officially be where he was already. 

 

After Scott left, things got a little more comfortable and a little more desperate. Everyone who was left had been personal friends with--and in some way felt personally betrayed by--Tony Stark. Even if none of them admitted it, except for, somewhat surprisingly, Natasha, who had been open from the start about how much Tony’s accusations had hurt her, entirely separate from her utter lack of faith in the Accords themselves. 

 

The five of them knew each other better than just about anyone, and were therefore more able to push each other’s buttons, get under each other’s skin. At one point, Clint and Natasha had almost come to blows, right in the middle of the quinjet cabin, over the last piece of dried mango; Steve didn’t really understand how the insults they’d hurled at each other had been so painful, but he’d never seen Natasha so close to tears, even when bleeding from a gut wound. He himself had had a screaming fight with Wanda over safety procedures that, afterwards, reminded him painfully of one of Bucky and Becca’s big blowouts, fifteen or a hundred years ago. Becca had never set a tree on fire with her frustration, though, and Bucky hadn’t dented the wall when he punched it, as Steve had. 

 

The only one who hadn’t lost their cool yet was Sam, and in some ways, Steve worried more about how icy and withdrawn his friend had become than he did about Wanda’s periodic weeping spells or Clint’s single-minded target practice/pigeon-slaughtering rampages. When he tried to ask him about it, though, Sam just looked at him cooly and said, “It’s fine, Cap. I knew what I was getting myself into.”

 

They all had nightmares sometimes; one memorable night, it had been four of them at once, Steve and Sam and Clint and Wanda all waking up within moments of each other, hazy and panting and scared half out of their wits, too many weapons pointed at each other as they tried to remember where they were. After that night, Sam had made it a point to give everyone pamphlets about PTSD and said with an even look, “Yeah, me too. Ain’t been easy for any of us, even before all this mess.” 

 

Three months after the Raft, Clint disappeared for two days. Steve was frantic, Natasha icy as she worked her connections to determine whether it was the WSC, Hydra, or someone else who had him. When Wanda’s phone rang, she didn’t put it on speaker, but Steve could hear it all anyway. Clint was in Hong Kong (they’d lost him in the suburbs of Sao Paolo) and Laura and the kids were there too, on an extended holiday, and they shouldn’t worry, and they shouldn’t come get him. He’d call if he needed help. Wanda hung up the phone, said, “he’s fine,”and burst into tears.

 

That was the first night they parked the quinjet rather than sleep in the air. It was a field somewhere up in the Bolivian Andes, without even a shepherd’s hut in sight. Natasha silently climbed up on top of the quinjet, sat down cross-legged, and didn’t move the whole night. Sam made a point to go for a run, “just so I’m ready for our next 10K race,” although he wasn’t prepared for how much the altitude winded him. He came back an hour later huffing and complaining, but more like himself than he’d been since Germany. 

 

Wanda had moped around for an hour, then asked Steve if he’d ever forgive her. Both of them knew who she was talking about, and he felt something twist in his chest, because Steve knew Vision had already forgiven her, would always forgive her, if there were actually anything to forgive. 

 

Steve’s heart ached for her, and he resolutely put that aside, along with his own feelings about giving and receiving forgiveness, from Clint and Tony and Bucky and a thousand others, and made Wanda teach him and Sam a Sokovian card game. They played until the moon was nearly set, probably two a.m. Natasha wouldn’t even respond to their attempts to coax her down to join them, and finally Steve gave up and fell asleep under the bright bowl of the sky. 

 

In the morning, he’d woken up to Natasha kicking his leg. “Get up,” she’d said evenly. “We’ve got a lead on a Hydra base. Time’s a-wastin’.” 

 

She was different--harder. She’d always been made of steel, but before it had been molten steel, soft and flexible and dangerous because of it. After Clint left, though, it was like she’d cooled, steam escaping as her edges became sharp and unyielding. She forced them into three missions in a row, destroying two Hydra bases and one human trafficking ring, with barely a night’s rest between them. 

 

Steve thought she was trying to stop herself from thinking, and said as much as they cleaned their gear after the last firefight. He thought she would slap him, or possibly shoot him (he’d never forget that look in a woman’s eyes after Peggy shot at him), but she chose her other, much more formidable weapon instead. “At least I didn’t choose the ice, like he did.”

 

Steve flinched, visibly. He was doing his best to run away from that, yes, but the way he was doing it wasn’t putting anyone else in danger. She was. He could see the weariness edging everyone’s eyes, and if they kept up at this pace they’d get sloppy, and sloppy meant captured or dead. So he stood his ground and didn’t dodge the conversation, just hit back the same way. “That’s got nothing to do with this, and you know it. But Clint didn’t  _ leave you _ , Nat, he  _ went to his family _ , and you’re going to get what’s left of us killed if you don’t accept that he can love you like a sister and walk away at the same time.”

 

That did earn him a slap, and he didn’t even try to dodge it. His face stung; he was certain it had a visible red handprint across his cheekbone, disappearing into his beard. He caught her hand afterwards, though, so that she couldn’t run away. 

 

“Nat. Listen. We have to be smarter than this. You know it.” 

 

She wouldn’t look at him, but she paused for a long moment. When she jerked her arm out of his grip, there wasn’t a lot of anger in it. She took the pilot’s seat without asking and flew them to the outskirts of Santiago, where she parked the jet in an old warehouse. She told Sam she’d be back by dawn and left without saying a word to Steve.

 

Sam took one look at Steve’s face and very pointedly didn’t ask. Wanda convinced them to take the time to get supplies from the supermarket and, once it was dark, actually explore a bit of the city, blow off some steam. They were back by eight p.m., but Steve did feel a little refreshed, and he thoroughly enjoyed the empanadas they’d brought back for dinner. 

 

The next morning, Natasha was back as promised, with steaming coffees for all of them. She didn’t say where she’d gone or what she’d done, but after that, she was a lot less risk-tolerant and actively enforced the rest period between missions. 

 

A week later, at night, curled up on the floor of the quinjet, she reached over and curled her hand around Steve’s without looking at him. They fell asleep that way, clasping hands and facing away from each other as Wanda’s light snores echoed off the walls.

 

\--------------

 

Ten weeks after Clint left, he called Steve to tell him he was going to take a plea deal and go home. The kids were homesick, Laura was tired of looking over her shoulder all the time. He needed to go back, and if that meant a plea deal, he would take it. 

 

Steve understood.

 

He asked Clint if the team should come by and say goodbye before he turned himself in. Clint said it would be too dangerous for them.

 

“You should see her, at least. Have you even talked to her since you left?” Steve knew Clint would know he was talking about Natasha.

 

Clint sighed. “Steve, I  _ can’t _ . They’ll be looking for her in particular anywhere that I am. She knows it, too.” 

 

Steve sighed too. He knew Clint was right, but he couldn’t stop picturing Natasha’s cold face next to Wanda’s tear-stained one when he’d called before. He heard a noise behind him, turned, and saw Natasha waiting as if she’d been summoned. Steve nodded once, holding her gaze. “I understand, Clint. But you’re telling her yourself.” He handed the phone over. He could hear Clint protesting even as it moved up to her ear. 

 

Steve brushed past her, purposefully letting his body touch hers, and went outside the quinjet to give her privacy. He waited at the edge of the ramp, though, and a few moments later felt her come to stand beside him. She didn’t say anything for a long time, just looked out with him at the forest. 

 

Finally, he spoke. “You okay?”

 

In his peripheral vision, he could see her nod once, decisively. “Yes.” A long pause. “Well, no, but I’m not mad at him. I’m not even mad at Tony anymore, not really. It’s just the way things are now.” 

 

Steve hadn’t heard Tony’s name in months--everyone carefully avoided saying it, at least when he was around. He hadn’t realized it would make him flinch until it didn’t anymore. Maybe he wasn’t mad anymore, either. 

 

He glanced over at her; she met his eyes right back. “If I tell you I know where a Hydra base is and that we should go blow it up, are you going to accuse me of avoidance again?” There was the faintest glimmer of a twinkle around the hard edge of her eyes. Steve felt the corner of his lips tip up slightly in response. 

 

“You know, this time I might actually recommend blowing it up myself.”


End file.
